Thursday, September 28, 2006

There's something I forgot to mention in the "things I learned on tour" entry and, well, it's not for the feint of heart. In fact, to me, it's downright depressing. It's up there with the end of Anna Karinina or Tess of the D'Ubervilles or the day when they stop making new episodes of the Simpsons. It concerns Gummi Bears.

You know which ones I'm talking about. They're the ones in the smallish green and brown bags with the overalled bear smiling out at you, made, I think, in some Nordic wasteland where the gummi is of a higher quality than here in the Americas. Anyway: they're gone. Somewhere around Texas I got an uncontrollable hankering and began checking every gas station, rest stop, drug store, street vendor, candy pusher, and grocer for those lovable orsine cavity inducers but no---they were nowhere. Have they gone out of business? Has Trolli mounted a hostile takeover? Were a tainted batch linked to a rabies outbreak somewhere in Finland? One thing's for certain: I need some. I'm like a junkie with twenty bucks and no dealer, wandering around Central Park at three in the morning, my man-mascara running from hours of fiending and weeping. Like Patrick Henry probably said at some point, "Give me gummi or give me death."

So, it's Thursday. Tomorrow, us, Two Seconds, and Division Day (to whose recent list of problems and worries you may add broken glasses and broken transmissions) will be playing Slim's. It starts at 9ish but get there early to lend an ear to everyone. We were allowed to choose the bill ourselves and chose, I think, rather wisely. Today we get to have our first practice in months, which will hopefully be filled with random, Widespread Panic jamouts I'd be embarrassed to hear tomorrow but which are incredibly fun when you're knee-deep in them. And, of course, new songs. I miss working on those. But we're giddy about it. Which, I'd say, is a good sign. I spent a month and a half playing music with the same three guys and I'm really excited to do it again today. And tomorrow. And until I've lost most of hearing and/or teeth. Hope to see your smiling faces in attendance. And, hey, I'll be at the Silversun show tonight too. I bet someone is double dipping. I know at least one person for certain.

Now, a poppyseed bagel awaits. Until we meet again which, now that I don't live in a van, will be very soon, goodbye for now.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

-If your cell phone gets left in the back of a taxi, cancel it immediately. Because all cabbies will innevitably sign up for a daily Teen Horoscope text messaging service and copious Justin Timberlake related ringtones that will end up costing you what should have been your rent check.

-To life's simple pleasures, such as breakfast in bed and putting on pants right out of the dryer, I'd like to add shampooing a beard. Bonus points because a shampooed mustache is right under your nose, so you have a built in air freshener for places like Cleveland, the manure fields of central California, and alleys filled with copulating bums.

-When you buy 17 movies for 17 dollars, well, you just bought 17 movies for 17 dollars. Or, alternatively: When "Alligator II: the Mutation" is the best movie you got, it's possible that you got ripped off. And, no matter what anyone tells you to the contrary, promise me you'll never watch "Cheerleader Ninjas" or "Killer Tongue."

-There are more Subway franchises in the continental United States than there are people in Montana. At least 3 of them will not kill you. I cannot speak for the other hundred and twenty thousand.

-Never take a two thousand dollar van on an eleven thousand mile journey. It will end badly.

-Do not trespass in seemingly harmless construction sites in towns that seem a bit down on their luck. You will likely find yourself in a prison jumpsuit that's three sizes too big, being pointed at by a 6'5" tattooed behemoth, who will say, quite astutely, "Some people don't belong in prison. Like that motherfucker. He don't belong in prison."

-Just because a state is hopelessly conservative doesn't mean you won't have a really fabulous time there. Conversely, just because a state is politically aware doesn't mean they won't, say, throw you in jail, extort you at check out time, or be filled with drunks that say "bro" too much. In other words, there are good people everywhere, but the pricks are there too. Ignore the later, if at all possible. Since it rarely is, go for the throat, the knees, or the crotch.

-Things like Mount Rushmore and Niagra Falls are famous for a reason. Stop by.

-Always put the cap back on the toothpaste. Unless you enjoy minty, gooey pants.

-If you're using Yahoo Maps to get somewhere, it's best to just close your eyes, brake erratically, and turn when the muse strikes you. You will arrive at the same time.

-When you've been living in hotels, rest stops, gas stations, and diners, you forget that coffee can actually be filled with caffiene. It's best to remember that before having your third cup on you first day home. Twitching in the corner has always been highly overrated.

-Pay attention to signs. You never know when a "God made dirt; Dirt don't hurt" will change your life forever.

-Always come home. Although surreal at first, home is the best part of every trip. I missed you, San Francisco.

Monday, September 25, 2006

I miss San Francisco. I miss everything about it. I miss my friends, my friend's friends, the friendly bum across from my office. I miss being elbowed by geriatric, cut-throat ladies on my afternoon commute. I miss the fog, the mist, the surprising half hours of pleasant sun before more fog and mist. I miss my bed. Hell, I watched the Rock a few weeks ago and I got all homesick. No, Ed Harris! Don't you dare launch VX gas into my town! Or, alternately, I'm gonna take pleasure in gutting you, boy.

Like Dorothy, there's no place like home. Except, well, no offense Dorothy, but my home is way more interesting than a runty terrier and a couple wizened aunties and uncles. San Francisco is more like Oz. (I once saw a flying monkey in the Presidio). Like Tony Bennett, I left my heart in San Francisco. Or, maybe I left it Montreal when I ate that vile Chinese slurry...no, wait, that wasn't my heart. That was my colon. Or my sanity. Not sure.

Like so many wagon riders of a time period I can't exactly pin down, we're riding westward. Well, no. More southward. We're eight hours from home. I'm excited. I'm giddy. I'm loaded up with gifts so handsome that they'll likely be thrown out two months from now. Hope someone has a brandy milk punch waiting for me.

Of course, there's a flip side. There's rent and consequently a seemingly innevitable return to the cubicle gallows. And there's no more tour. No more traveling. No more Taco John's (thank some diety). Rolling through the country on a perpetual roadtrip, jumping around playing music, watching terrible late night Showtime movies with embolism inducing plot holes: it's all quite fun. You hear strange accents, accidentally adopt them, drive away. You meet new bands, memorize their songs, drive away. You eat poorly, moan extensively, drive away. Just not before visiting the water closet.

But that's (almost) all over now. And you know how we're celebrating? By playing another show, of course. When we get home, we've got a couple afternoons to relax, a couple evenings to eat, drink, and be merry, a couple mornings to sleep through completely, then: Slim's.

So, what can you expect if you come out (and I do hope you can)? Well, I've got a beard. Peter has enough hair for a seventeenth century ponytail. Zach has bat wings. Also, Two Seconds will be releasing their CD the very same day and they're oh so fantastic. Division Day will be playing too, which means, at the very least, more beards. And more rocking. And everyone can come because it's all ages. And it's on a Friday night, so you don't have anything to do in the morning, unless your kid has a soccer game, in which case, tell him to kick the other guy right above the shin guard and below the knee.

Speaking of Divison Day: they're free men. Their charges were reduced from miscarriage of justice to trespassing, which involves, tragically, another trip to a Spokane courthouse, but likely a small fee. They made (plutonic) friends in jail though. They wore extra large blue jumpsuits and pink boxerbriefs provided by the state. They were mocked mercilessly but playfully by the remaining DDayers and most of Birdmonster. But, not unlike a small bottle of wine on an international flight, they're free.

Long drives, sleeping in The Castle, and a pair of shows have waylayed the blog the last couple days. We had an instudio at KEXP that was a ball and is probably up on their website. We did a mean Spaceman. And now, somehow, it's over. 35 shows. Maybe 36. Hell, I stopped counting in August. And you know what? I'm not too sore, White Castle cured all my illnesses, and we all still love each other. Success is easy to define.

Tonight: a long, long sleep in my own bed. I can't begin to fathom how lovely that's going to be.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Our story begins at the Center Stage in Spokane Washington, a dinner theatre cum concert venue, DJ arena, art show, coffee shop, and, perhaps, breeding ground for giant pandas. It begins after a thirteen hundred mile drive, spread out over two and a half leisurely days spent alternately watching Blade, the Cutting Edge, White Squall, finishing my Michael Malone book, and slowing for road construction that never seemed to actually be occurring. It begins at the Center Stage but it ends, for some of us, in prison jumpsuits. For the rest of us it ends with late night Jack in the Box and a feeling of confusion, frustration, and thoroughly justified hatred. But it begins at the Center Stage.

Our friends at Spokane 7, an arts insert in the local paper, pulled out, if not all, a large majority of the stops last night: four bands, three DJs, two artists, and a patridge in a pear tree. The only thing missing were drink tickets, but dinner was free, delicious, and included some potato sausage cabbage soup that I'm still smiling about.

Spokane is a city I can't seem to get my head around. The streets near the club were peopled with zombies, toothless hobos, women with capes, well dressed old people, angry drunks, and the diverse but completely lovely crowd that came inside to watch the show. We met up with Division Day who are our outer bookend this tour. Two more shows and I'm home. Wonderous. Anyway, we played in a dinner theatre with no diners, which is good because I'd rather not play to somebody's duck pate. We had a blast and, for the first time ever, did an acoustic, sit down encore, banjo, stomping, and all. I was almost in tune.

And everyone seemed happy. Joy was in the air. Besides some strange gentleman outside screaming about beating up some other drunk guy and his cohorts ("I'll fuck you up man. And all yer emo friends" (proceeds to fall down)), it was a veritable bubble of good cheer. And, since the noise curfew there was 10:30, there was time to scurry next door for billiards, chatter, and more booze. And that's where things turned sour.

Of course, at first, that feeling of all-is-well was intact. Beer and pleasant company have a way of doing that for you. I was demolishing Ryan from DDay at pool, he was weeping, I spilled a drink down Zach's shoe: like I said, good cheer. Kevin & Seb from DDay, the only single boys on this leg, were talking to some lovely ladies, one of whom we dragged out of her coffee shop last time we were in town and decided we were good enough to check out again. She, her friend, and our two DDay mates left to take a walk. I continued whooping Ryan at pool.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, there were sirens.

And more sirens.

And, wait. Is that Kevin in handcuffs? No. Can't be. But the guy with him looks an awful lot like Seb.

Oh. Shit.

And there we were, out on the sidewalk, watching slack-jawed as ten cops stood around, their cute, curly little tails waving in the breeze, figuring out what to do with two of the least likely criminals since Mother Theresa teamed up with Spiderman. Then, to our chagrin, they were pushed into a car. Rohner, Pete, and I approached one of the piggies to ask what in God's name these two were being handcuffed and, presumably, taken away for but were shouted at for walking into the street by an infuriating moron with a mustache a twelve year old would be ashamed of. "They can call you from jail," said this pre-pubescent jackanape. And like that, they drove off.

Skip ahead to this morning. The two chaps are being held for...second degree burglary.

Now, a few details have become clear. Firstly, they were picked up across the street from the pool hall we were at, having snuck into an abandoned, under-construction office building. Okay. Honestly. What are you going to steal from a gutted high-rise? Cinder blocks? Rebar? Gravel? The jury is still out on that, which, come to think of it, let's hope the jury doesn't stay out on anything. Secondly, they've posted bail. As I write this, we're unsure if justice will prevail and the case will be dismissed or if justice will take a dirt nap and our boys will be further shat upon for reasons unknown and surely unsatisfactory. We'll see. For now, I have faith. The charge is too risible for them to be tried. Of course, I've been wrong before.

So say a prayer. Enjoy your weekend. Stay out of construction sites for Christ's sake. See you soon.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

When experiencing something for the first time, it either a) lives up (or down) to your expectations, b) is far worse than previously hoped, or c) way better than your lovliest hallucinations. C is by far the most enjoyable. C is expecting Demolition Man to be horrible only to discover that it's roughly three times better than Casablanca. C is eating a 79 cent breakfast and not getting dysentary. C is finding out you look good in a cowboy hat. C is South Dakota.

I mentioned yesterday I was excited about this state. My Eccentric America tourbook has a surprisingly detailed, shockingly lengthy chapter on South Dakota. It's not all crackpot festivals like the Wyoming Testicle Fair or the Great Idaho Bed Parade or Colorado's Frozen Dead Guy Day, either. No, sir. They've got the Corn Palace (which we visited after closing and is, well, at the very least, it's aptly named). They've got the Badlands. They've got Walldrug and a four dead guys carved on the side of a mountain. They've got Jackalopes. I mean, rabbits with antlers? Step aside duck-billed platapus. The freak train has a brand new conductor. And, sorry, but what do you got North Dakota? A Rock Museum? The World's Most Unfortunate Enima? Exactly. Game. Set. Match. South Dakota.

Since we're working on a twelve or thirteen hour drive today, we decided to stop at all of the aforementioned attractions. The Badlands are gorgeous in a lifeless, eerie sort of way, like a giant mouth of rather poorly cared for teeth. Mount Rushmore is, well, remember the a), b), and c) above? Well, it lived up to expectations. Totally impressive, staggeringly large, and thoroughly odd when you really sit down and think about it (mountain plus giant noggins equals patriotism). And the guy who designed it has one of the most absolutely bad ass names of all time: Gutzon Borglum. Sounds like a Douglas Adams character. Or a $2000 Jeopardy question. Either way, don't say I never taught you anything.

And you know what? Hats off to Gutzon Borglum. He chose four of the good presidents. When I was in New York, I had a conversation in a diner about our currency and how, of all people, Andrew "Trail of Tears" Jackson is on our twenty dollar bill. Talk about a dickcheese. FDR got the dime because of the March of Dimes (which made that whole Reagan on the dime campaign all the more infuriating), Washington got the one for being One, but Jackson? He sucked. He was a shmuck. He didn't even have a cool beaver hat or spectacles or an embarrasing ponytail. So, let's throw him off. Let's start a petition. I can think of a hundred people more qualified. And, as Ben Franklin proves, you don't even have to be the Commander in Chief to be on it. Martin Luther King? Much better. Millard Fillmore? Why not? Howie Mandell would be better, for God's sake. Not that I'd advocate for that cue-bald, washed-up, once-Bobby's World voicing, now forsaking humanity on a game show featuring mainly labotomized rubes son of a bitch, but, hey, he's no Andrew Jackson. How bout Doc Holliday? Frederick Douglas? Earl Warren? Dr. J? It's not too hard being less horrendous than Andrew Jackson. Even Ty Cobb gives him a run for his money. So, next time I go to the ATM, I expect any of the above cantidates smiling at me. If England can put Darwin on the 10 pound note, we can put Dr. J on the 20. Let's make it happen.

Lastly, there's Walldrug. Located in the city of Wall, South Dakota (population roughly equal to the block I live on in San Francisco), Walldrug is a monument to tawdry bric a brac, 5 cent coffee, jerky of varying low qualities, candy containing ingedients unstable enough that a mere ten chemists worldwide can concoct them, humorous stockings, western wear, donuts, already broken cap guns, sno-globes, taxidermed prarie dogs, eye-gougingly atrocious original oil landscapes---so, basically, Walldrug is paradise. I would live there if they rented rooms. I bought a new wallet and spent what was left in my old one. I had to be forcibly removed from the premises.

Now? Well, we're in Montana. It's over five hundred miles across and we've got to finish it off this evening, then, unless road fatigue has overtaken us all, it's through Idaho to Spokane. Dave and I just sacrificed two hours of our lives to the Gods of Useless Non-Entertainment watching the Cutting Edge (hockey player gets injured, teams up with a bitchy figure skater who can't keep a partner, attempts to regain former icy glory, falls in love in the process) and, well, we enjoyed it immensely. Ridiculous in the truest sense of the word. As in, worthy of ridicule.

The sun is setting over the edges of Minnesota. Maybe South Dakota. I haven't really been sign watching for the last couple hours. I've had my head burried in a Michael Malone book, which is a veritable tour tradition, one which, unless he gets cracking at some new novels, will forcable end itself three tours from now. So get going buddy. And straight to softcover, if you wouldn't mind. Thirty bucks for a heavier book with a flimsy dust jacket has never struck me as a grand bargain.

Anyway, it's gorgeous here. It reminds me of a colder, more corn-lined central California, lacking in windmills and In 'N' Outs, pleasantly free of that lingering manure aroma that lingers over most everything south of San Jose and north of Santa Barbara, with plenty of rolling green, ominous cloud-cover, and anonymous smushed mammals. Perfect Richard Buckner scenery. Excuse me while I put some on.

Ah, that's more like it. Warble on, big guy.

So here we are. A 1300 mile trundle to the Pacific Northwest which we're elongating by an additional hundred miles so we can take the 90 and maybe see the Corn Palace or Walldrug or Mount Rushmore, all of which are in South Dakota, the most interesting state I never gave much credit to and assumed was just a 300 mile yawn. Of course we got a late start this morning---or, rather, this late afternoon---so we might miss them all, thanks to a marathon of horrific beers, bittersweet au reviours, and copious Ping Ponging. Our priorities: maleable. Perhaps retarded. But I rediscovered my backhand, so back off. Ping Pong, the onamotopeic sport of the aristocracy. Or something.

Before I get even further off-track, let's talk about Minnesota. First off, it should be mentioned that we played an in-studio at 89.3, the Current, in one of the most impressive recording spaces I've ever seen. And any station that plays Nancy Sinatra, Okkervil River, the Temptations, Mr. Lif, and Ryan Adams in the same set gets brownie points up the wazoo. Or is it out the wazoo? In any event, they've been given far too many brownie points for the wazoo to begin to contain them all. Plus, they were the first station to play Prarie Home Companion (Lake Wobegon, if I recall, is in Minnesota), so, well, the wazoo is overflowing as it is. Let's leave it alone, shall we?

One lingering sadness: no Fargo-esque accents. I was rather looking forward to that.

The show was enjoyable, enjoyed, memorable, and, sadly, our last night with Boris Yeltsin and the Someone Still Loves Yous. We had that lovely, storm the stage moment during each other's respective sets and my palm is covered in plum colored splotches due to overly aggressive tambourining. It's always sad when you say goodbye to a friend band of guys whose songs you thoroughly enjoy but there's really nothing you can do about it. Except violent kidnapping. Sadly, I left my twine and blackjack in Rochester.

It's fully nighttime now. We're God knows how far from the Corn Palace, civilization, other, less appreciated Dakotas. I think I'll kick back and enjoy the Tom Petty. Seems like a good thing to do.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Look: I'm a fairly upbeat gentleman. I like the half-full glass of brandy, the silver lining on the cummulus, all those optimistic cliches. When I think about our Commander In Chief, instead of focusing on the prisoner abuse, irresponsible tax cuts, youthful drug habits that would've intimidated Tony Montana, or any of the other, innumerable, saddening negatives, I think, "Hey: he's good at not stabbing his wife and children." So, when I think of Cleveland, I try and focus on the bartendress we had, the pleasant, cozy show, the lack of serious bodily injuries we sustained.

Of course, I could just as easily harp on the hilarious awfulness.

Before I go on, I should explain that we were sort of sequestered from the goings-on at Peabody's downstairs. We were up in a pseudo-soundproofed cage known as "The Rockstar Room," named not for the profession of any performers who happened to come through (and it's highly doubtful they do, since we're talking 100 people max), but for that so-called energy "drink" that tastes like an amalgam between Dimetap and the urine of a strange Australia marsupial. Downstairs there were actually two more stages (yes, three total), one of which featured various poorly executed attempts at Doom Metal, Black Metal, Tooty-Fruity-Slam-Grunt, Gore-Grind, Fungal-Mosh, or any of the other thousand Heavy Metal subgenres. The other stage: a vicariously embarrassing display of whiteman rapping.

Honestly, I know it sounds like I'm up in my little tower, looking down my Indie-snob nose at midwesterners exchanging testoterone-drenched shoves while headbanging to indistinguishable gruntings or bobbing along to faux-thugs who couldn't make the first cut of "Making the Insane Clown Posse." I'm trying to avoid that vibe. But I was flabbegasted. I've never heard rap that bad. I've never shook my head at metal that discouraging. I've never seen an otherwise bald man with six braided pigtails. But, you know, everyone who wasn't punching each other or passed out, High Life in hand, head in a pool of their own upchuck, well, they seemed to be having a good time. So who am I to judge? Cottonmouth Kings forever.

Then there was Chicago.

I saw my Grandfolks, we played Catfish Haven's CD release show, had lunch with our friend Robert, slept fitfully, got nicely blotto, and played what we all felt was one of our best shows in one of the nicest venues of the tour. It's not really as funny as Cleveland, but yes sir, may I have another?

A few strange parts of the evening do come to mind. Like Kevin from Division Day appearing. Rather unexpected, to say the least. We'll, as you might know, be meeting back up with him and his cohorts in less than a week's time for Spokane, Portland, Seattle, pancakes, and the venerable castle his aunt resides in. I also enjoyed seeing Catfish off on their big night, when they covered Moni Moni, had an extra six members, and, well, they were still wearing the same clothes. I love 'em for it though. One of the back-up singers put it perfectly as his looked through his valise for a clean shirt, post-show: "Those guys go on tour for a month with one shirt and a pair of parts. I bring a suitcase to go 'Oooh.'" They played beautifully. All our best to them.

Come to think of it: tomorrow's our last show with Boris Yeltsin too. A boy could get depressed with all these goodbyes, honestly. We're going to be playing the town of Prince, my doppelganger and Halloween trope, Minneapolis, before embarking on a staggeringly long, two day roll to Oregon. I'm hoping to buy Tombstone before the trek. You're no daisy. You're no daisy at all.

For now, on to Minnesota. We've got a radio shindig in the morning, a show at night, and then the above mentioned drive of drooling lunacy. Onwards.

Friday, September 15, 2006

It's a rare occasion when I do the circa-1988-fainting-girl-at-a-Michael-Jackson-concert thing. But there I was last night, stomping in place, doing the limp wrist face fan, yelping "OhmiGAWD" because we got to meet one of the guys from Thunderbirds are Now! in their hometown, Detroit Michigan. Zach had a stroke of MySpace genius and invited them whilst we bogarted the University of Michigan's internet connection and, lo and behold, they came. With their brand new CD in tow no less. Their first LP is one of my personal go-to late-night driving records, so I'm rather giddy about it. I probably embarrassed myself a bit last night though. I don't think humping his leg helped much.

We had another such moment earlier this tour when we met Paul from Harry and the Potters in Boston. For those who don't know, Paul is Harry Potter year 7 and, in stark disobedience of Dumbledore's suggestions, used a time turner so he could play music with his brother, Harry Potter year 4, rocking medium-sized venues and libraries all summer long. We schoolgirled out on him before trading book 7 predictions. I think, through some heroic deed or five, Harry loses all his magical powers while saving the magical and muggle races. Of course, my mouth is in my ass when I say this. Still, Harry year 7 was intrigued. We high-fived and vanished.

That was several days ago though. We're finally at that light at the end of the tunnel stage, with three more Midwest shows, a Minneapolis NPR appearance, and a handful of Northwest shows then...home. I remember home. Vaguely. There's a Victorian with my bed in it, a bunch of fog, a bunch of bums. Oh man. My bed. Odds of there being a gecko under the comforter: low.

Last evening we played without Catfish Haven but with Someone Still Has Feelings for Mikael Gorbachov in Hamtramck (really, that's how it's spelled) and some hometown friends, the Lovely Public. They rocked in a Tim Burton on acid at a carnival sort of way. Highly recommended. After the show we all had our very first taste of White Castle. Which, come to think of it, deserves it's own paragraph.

First off, we don't have White Castle on the left coast. We have it's superior godfather, In N Out. But let it be said: White Castle is magical. See, I was sicker than I'd been all tour yesterday evening. I was 25% mucus, 35% headache, and 30% self-pity. The other 10%: snips, snails, puppydog tails. But I scarfed down some post show White Castle, went to sleep in a real bed (thanks Matt & Wendy), and woke up feeling wonderful. In other words, White Castle: 1, Airborne, Advil, Multi-Vitamins, Chicken Soup, Crushed Rhino Penis Voodoo Cocktail: 0.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

This whole not-shaving thing has gotten rather enjoyable. You wake up every morning, push in your contact lenses, and voila: you look slightly different than the day before. And not in that "Holy shit, my cowlick defies all laws of physics" sort of way. More in a "I'm looking slightly more lumberjack" sort of way. And really, who doesn't like lumberjacks? Nobody. Except trees. But trees hate everyone.

There, of course, is a problem: grooming. For example, there's all this neck hair and there's that part that's sort of climbing up my nose and, well, I haven't figured out what the geometry of this thing should be. So I've let it roam free. It's like a very happy labrador. I think I'll name it "Jorge." Or "Captain Gusto." Yeah. Captain Gusto's far superior.

The other thing is that you've really got to wash a beard. You notice this when you lick your lips, get a little mustache, and it tastes like the Cheetos you forgot you ate last night. In retrospect, I should have seen this coming.

So, last post I forgot to mention that, upon reaching New York, we had to say goodbye to the Sammies between Manhattan and Union Hall. We all have serious platonic manlove for those boys who, when the going got tough, whooped the going's ass. Purple, swollen, crushed hand? Fine. They'll play bass with it. Missing guitar player? Shit, son. They got back-ups living in their trailer. Flat tire? Tie some sweatshirts around it and roll. We miss those boys.

And, as is completely innevitable, I'm sick. Every tour has it's feverish, ear-achey, phlegm rattling week and that week is now. Ricola, I put my faith in you and your yodeling Swedish chemists.

But let's not allow me to whine about that. You can't spend countless nights drinking in loud dungeons, getting to bed when HBO turns PG again and not expect a bit of brain pain. Instead, let's turn to Rochester.

We spent an extra night in upstate New York since the Canadians crapped on our Toronto dreams, and, beyond the endless, labrinthine search for a motel that didn't remind us of Guantanamo Bay, we had a grand ol' time. Well, expect for taking our free afternoon to watch You, Me & Dupree at a second-rate, second-run movie theatre. Let me put it this way: we spent a dollar each to se it and we got ripped off. I can count the times I laughed on my middle finger.

In stark contrast to the abovementioned trashola, the venue we played was really interesting. Called the Bug Jar, this place had circling paper-mache insects affixed to a ceiling fan, obviously stressed from the weight of a three foot mosquito. It's apparently the only place in Rochester where you can watch anything but metal, meaning, among other things, there will be far less bands purposely misspelling their names at the Bug Jar than anywhere else in town. Less strings on basses too. And far less angry white man screaming. What happened to metal, anyway? In the days of Black Sabbath and Led Zep, metal was more interested in melody, hallucinagens, and Tolkien. Then there was that 80's well-conditioned hair, smiley metal thing, followed by, well, basically what we've got now. I miss Iron Maiden. Who doesn't?

Oh wait, they're still around? I'm going to slink into this here hole and eat some grubs.

Monday, September 11, 2006

So...sorry about this. But since we're without a work permit and our plot to play for free was shot down by the Canadian border patrol, we have to scurry back to the States. I'm sad. We're sad. We never cancel shows, and, rather than getting banned from the Maple Leaf, we're going home because, hey, we want to come back. Hell, when G.W. loses his mind and starts drafting everyone without serious a mental retardation under the age of 50, we might have to come visit. And by visit I mean live in the Yukon, eat large furry mammals, and learn to ice skate. See you again sometime.

So. Zach's sidekick, the portable internet, palm sized Ms. Pacman portal from which I usually send the blog has been having...issues. Like the lack of a working "j" or "t," for example. Or the fact that when you press the enter button it starts ringing, lighting up in perplexing, epileptic ways, then spits out a stream of jibberish where the line break should be. Rather infuriating stuff, honestly. That, coupled with the fact Dave's sidekick has actually been installed inside his brain has prevented me from posting recently. However: here I am. How you may ask? Dave's brains are splattered all over the ceiling, Pulp Fiction style. It was an accident. I swears.

Much has happened beyond that oopsies homicide. Hands have been run over, girlfriends have visited, Canada has filled our bellies with blueberry crepes. In fact, why am I dilly dallying? Let's go state by state, leaving out the sometimes drab personal show revues and focusing only on the weird, the tragic, and the weirdly tragic. And whatever other crap I feel like yammering about. As usual.

North Carolina. Remember that year the Dodgers won the World Series? It was when they had that unfortunately named pitcher, Orel Hurschieser, whose moniker is trumped by only a select few sporting figures, most namely Dick Butkis, whose name alone warranted the immense meanness he emmanated at all times. What I remember was Kirk Gibson: gimpy, improbable, totally clutch, coming up at the bottom of some ninth inning, hitting a game winning homerun, and struggling around the bases like a geriatric weekend softballer. Well, the Sammies have their own Kirk Gibson. His name is Bobby Freedom.

See, their original guitar player was AWOL, sick, totally unable to complete their tour past their hometown of Charlotte. This information came in tandem with the unfortunate accident of their bass player's hand getting run over. By a car. Great night for them, right? Put the whole Patrick Stewart debacle in perspective. That perspective: it was still horrendous, but at least we're in it together, without throbbing personal injuries.

Enter their buddy, off-again-on-again tour manager, grad school TA Bobby Freedom. Rather than touring as a three-piece, Bobby learned songs in the car, note for note, with impressive precocious skill, and finished out the tour. I had to give him a shout-out for that. In fact, I did every night. By the end, he was dangerously close to headbutting me. I can be annoyingly repetitive. Annoyingly. Repetitive.

Washington DC. By far the sweatiest show thus far. I left a small, fetid puddle onstage. But one of, if not the favorite show since we were home. DC is a weird place: it's not really a state, it's filled with enormous and completely useless patriotic pap, it's where all my taxes go to die, and yet, it's always been home to really good music and great venues. I always find that odd. I want to go back very soon and I will forever have happy DC memories. I may even start smiling at C-SPAN, which is the televised equivalent of a meat thermometer labotomy.

Also, I finished Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on the way there, winner of the Best Book I Can't Believe I Hadn't Read By Now Award. Thanks to the esteemed Gasoline Hobo for loaning me his copy, which I shall return with a couple creased pages and a big fat smile.

Oh, and Steve Irwin died that day. We dedicated Resurrection Song to him. By the way: most hardcore death ever. Stingray to the heart? I defy you to pick a more manly way to go out. Brain failure after a headbutt contest? Not even close. At any rate, rest in peace Croc Hunter. You were good-crazy, lovable, ridiculous, and too too young.

New York. New Jersey. We next moseyed to Jersey, home of a really menacing freeway, the Boss, and the butt of many, many unfair jokes. It was our first evening with Catfish Haven and Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin, who shall henceforth be abbreviated in a variety of ways I find amusing. Both are thoroughly pleasant, fairly soft-spoken, easy to deal with bunches of gentlemen. Catfish is mostly bearded, bespectacled, and have a moritorium on multiple shirts. I've seen them in a grand total of one each. If I tried this, the van would smell vaguely of corpses. They play quality, American rock and roll and sound like no one else I've ever heard. Boris and Natasha are a quintet of less hairy men with lots of harmonizing, dynamic changes, and more clothing. They were once named Satan's Penis.

And you think I'm joking.

Our New York shows were, yet again, a blast. Our girlfriends were in town, which was fantastic on about seven million levels, and New Yorkers, yet again, rocked out fitfully, sang along, and fed us cat-sized sandwiches that led to the innevitable meat coma. Pete's Mom brought us some movies for the backseat and Pete's Dad slapped me, twice, for no discernable reason. I'm pleased to note Tango and Cash is now among our library, which is one of the great goodbad movies of all time. Gymkata and Demolition Man: shaking in their boots.

The Mercury Lounge, by the way, is a fantastic venue. Great stage, nice sound, free drinks out the wazoo. I have nothing bad to say about it. Very much a rock and roll club, without frills, with money spent on all the right things. I mention this because I'm about to heap copious quantities of praise on the Union Hall and don't want it to get jealous. I still love you, honey. Put the corkscrew down.

If you live in Brooklyn, go to Union Hall. In fact, if you live within six hundred miles, you owe it to yourself. It's got a formidable library, comfy couches, and gigantic boche ball courts. That's right: plural boche ball courts. It's like finding out you have a sophisticated Italian gentleman for an uncle who has you over and makes you pay for drinks and food but you don't care because his house is way nicer than yours. You probably steal some of his silverware, just for the hell of it though. That'll teach him.

Boston. After bidding adieu to NYC, feeling pleasant but admittedly hung-over, we trundled off to Massachussets, land of drunken way-too-serious baseball fans, roughly nine hundred thousand colleges, and the Middle East, a labrinthine venue we loved, beyond the horrific service while we ate. Our waitress gets an F plus. I'm just glad there was no mucus in my humus.

We weren't in Boston for long though. Long enough to come up with another awesome side project, Lord Bicep and the Distended Estomagos, but not long enough to do much more than live in the venue, nurse that aforementioned hangover, park at a Masonic Lodge, see a few old faces (one who came out of faaaaar left field, is studying biology, and made me feel like a genius for remembering his name after seven years), and roll out of town to some really soft beds and a really bad Jet Li movie. But damn, we enjoyed ourselves. Except during Unleashed, which just made us sad.

We're here now, actually, somewhere between Montreal (home of bowel-clenchingly horrific Chinese food) and Toronto (home of...well, I've never been. The Blue Jays are from there though). Yesterday was Montreal, after a lengthy but successful stop at the border. We had to decline payment for tonight's Toronto show since we were sans proper paperwork, but a free show in Canada is much better than a free night watching bad television in Rochester. After a long series of rowdy and sold-out east coast shows, we were due for a weird, sparsely attended show in a dungeon in a foreign country, right? I think so. Last night's venue was somewhat like a stone tube. I couldn't really stand up straight onstage without a high chance of a self-inflicted concussion and, well, I'm 5'7". In other words, I hope the National never plays there. They'll end up bruised and loopy, with lots of perplexing coinage.

But, hey Canada: you're pretty fantastic. We left some laundry in our hotel and the desk lady hunted us down at breakfast to give it back. Quebec...ers have great accents. Your countryside is gorgeous. Just close down that restaurant we ate at last night. "Bog Goop" is not an acceptible sauce.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Kudzu. Just say that out loud. It's fun. It's a good word. It doesn't necessarily sound like what it actually is. No. It sounds like a third-rate stand-up comedians who's opening up for Carrot Top and even his audience isn't laughing. Either that or some exotic delicacy that isn't quite as good as you expected and then ends up giving you the runs. Of course, it's neither. It's a plant. A vine, really. And it's EVERYWHERE.

Apparently, kudzu's from Japan but when it came to the South, it really felt at home. It enveloped trees, houses, the occassional abandoned front yard jalopy and got the nickname "the plant that ate the South" (which reminds me: Southern food is delicious. We've been surviving mostly on collard greens, loafs consisting of multiple, unknown animals, and ribs. Lots of ribs. Birdmonster is dead. Long live Clogged-Artery-Fatmonster). At any rate, if you've never seen pictures of kudzu devouring all neighboring architecture, plantlife, and sedentary elderly people, you should check it out. I'd recommend a book, but if you're anything like me, google image search is far more accessible. It's rather pretty, if not a little monotonous. Like, say, driving through Kansas.

Since we've checked in last, we've been surrounded by the stuff. Two shows in Georgia, two shows in North Carolina, and a few backstage, backyard, backwoods ho-downs. They seemed appropriate at the time, anyway. The best among those was almost certainly our show in Charlotte, erstwhile home of the Sammies, which meant plenty of rowdy, sing-a-long-in' drunks, meeting the parents of half the band, and accidentally leaving my bar tab open, which is a bummer as the Visualite was a phenomenal club. At least I left tips. And one was the ellusive two dollar bill tip, which happens once a tour, when I'm feeling saucy, pleasant generous, and need fast service for the remainder of the evening. But we all know how I feel about the 2, so let's move on.

Charlotte, beyond boasting one of the best crowds thus far, both in size and rambunctiousness, also introduced us to the Pendletons, a rather ass-kicking Athens band who sounded at times as if from Seattle and at other times from some town in Appalacia that just got the electricity working. They also joined us as we stormed the stage during the Sammies' encore and for a Willie Nelson inspired (or ripped off, I can't quite remember) hee-haw session back stage after all was said and done. Plus, sleeping on the Sammies' couch, eating Otter Pops, and waking up to coffee is about 9000 times better than you average hotel. Alexander the Grape concurs.

Georgia though, she's sort of a blur. There were peaches I didn't eat, all that kudzu, and some poorly paved roads. Athens is gorgeous, though. Atlanta's the blur. In fact, know that I mention Athens, there are a couple nifty factoids worth sharing.

First, Weaver D.'s. Delicious chicken, delicious pork, delicious everything. Weaver D is this giant dude with a lugubrious voice who ends your transaction with the word "automatic" before providing you with the aforementioned deliciousness. I bring this up because the sign outside says "Weaver D's Fine Foods; Automatic for the People." And yes, R.E.M. was from Athens. See how it all comes together?

Second, the Georgia Bulldogs. See, out in San Francisco, we've got sports too, but, frankly, we suck. We've got the Giants, who are all geriatric, in between roid rages, or both. We've got the 49ers, who devolved from Dynasty to Pop Warner laughingstock and the A's, who are always pretty good but going to games is just depressing. I've seen more fans at a girl's high school soccer game. And the Warriors? Don't get me started. I loves me some Warriors, but being a Warriors fan is like having a nephew you really like, only every weekend he gets drunk on Bartles and James, crashes your car, and gets a raise in his allowance. Anyway, the entire town of Athens was positively consumed by the Bulldogs. We loaded out of the 40 Watt while the game was beginning and I swear, the streets consisted of us, a few tumbleweeds, and a frantic guy in cargo shorts running home with two twelvers of Coor's Light. Sheer madness.

There's a couple more stories, but I'll save 'em for another time. Plus, my thumbs are cramping. Same place, say, Tuesday? That's okay. Wednesday works too.